“That night, just at the hour of sunset, a shot was fired at me from a neighbouring clump of trees, only missing me I think by the fraction of an inch. I realized that the peril was real, and was one against which I could not fight.
“Permit me to be brief, gentlemen. Six attempts of various kinds were made upon my life in Cuba. I crossed to the United States. In Washington, the political capital of the country, an assassin gained access to my hotel apartment and but for the fact that a friend chanced to call me up on the telephone at that late hour of the night, thereby awakening me, I should have received a knife in my heart. I saw the knife in the dim light; I saw the shadowy figure. I leapt out on the opposite side of the bed, seized a table-lamp which stood there, and hurled it at my assailant.
“There was a crash, a stifled exclamation, shuffling, the door opened, and my would-be assassin was gone. But I had learned something, and to my old fears a new one was added.”
“What had you learned?” asked Harley, whose interest in the narrative was displayed by the fact that his pipe had long since gone out.
“Vaguely, vaguely, you understand, for there was little light, I had seen the face of the man. He wore some kind of black cloak doubtless to conceal his movements. His silhouette resembled that of a bat. But, gentlemen, he was neither a negro nor even a half-caste; he was of the white races, to that I could swear.”
Colonel Menendez lighted the cigarette which he had been busily rolling, and fixed his dark eyes upon Harley.
“You puzzle me, sir,” said the latter. “Do you wish me to believe that this cult of Voodoo claims European or American devotees?”
“I wish you to believe,” returned the Colonel, “that although as the result of the alarm which I gave the hotel was searched and the Washington police exerted themselves to the utmost, no trace was ever found of the man who had tried to murder me, except”— he extended a long, yellow forefinger, and pointed to the wing of the bat lying upon Harley’s table— “a bat wing was found pinned to my bedroom door.”
Silence fell for a while; an impressive silence. Truly this was the strangest story to which I had ever listened.
“How long ago was that?” asked Harley.
“Only two years ago. At about the time that the great war terminated. I came to Europe and believed that at last I had found security. I lived for a time in London amidst a refreshing peace that was new to me. Then, chancing to hear of a property in Surrey which was available, I leased it for a period of years, installing— is it correct?— my cousin, Madame de Stämer, as housekeeper. Madame, alas, is an invalid, but”— he kissed his fingers— “a genius. She has with her, as companion, a very charming English girl, Miss Val Beverley, the orphaned daughter of a distinguished surgeon of Edinburg. Miss Beverley was with my cousin in the hospital which she established in France during the war. If you will honour me with your presence at Cray’s Folly to-morrow, gentlemen, you will not lack congenial company, I can assure you.”
He raised his heavy eyebrows, looking interrogatively from Harley to myself.
“For my own part,” said my friend, slowly, “I shall be delighted. What do you say, Knox?”
“I also.”
“But,” continued Harley, “your presence here today, Colonel Menendez, suggests to my mind that England has not proved so safe a haven as you had anticipated?”
Colonel Menendez crossed the room and stood once more before the Burmese cabinet, one hand resting upon his hip; a massive yet graceful figure.
“Mr. Harley,” he replied, “four days ago my butler, who is a Spaniard, brought me— ” He pointed to the bat wing lying upon the blotting pad. “He had found it pinned to an oaken panel of the main entrance door.”
“Was it prior to this discovery, or after it,” asked Harley, “that you detected the presence of someone lurking in the neighbourhood of the house?”
“Before it.”
“And the burglarious entrance?”
“That took place rather less than a month ago. On the eve of the full moon.”
Paul Harley stood up and relighted his pipe.
“There are quite a number of other details, Colonel,” he said, “which I shall require you to place in my possession. Since I have determined to visit Cray’s Folly, these can wait until my arrival. I particularly refer to a remark concerning a neighbour of yours in Surrey.”
Colonel Menendez nodded, twirling his cigarette between his long, yellow fingers.
“It is a delicate matter, gentlemen,” he confessed.
“I must take time to consider how I shall place it before you. But I may count upon your arrival tomorrow?”
“Certainly. I am looking forward to the visit with keen interest.”
“It is important,” declared our visitor; “for on Wednesday is the full moon, and the full moon is in some way associated with the sacrificial rites of Voodoo.”
Chapter 3 THE VAMPIRE BAT
An hour had elapsed since the departure of our visitor, and Paul Harley and I sat in the cosy, book-lined study discussing the strange story which had been related to us. Harley, who had a friend attached to the Spanish Embassy, had succeeded in getting in touch with him at his chambers, and had obtained some few particulars of interest concerning Colonel Don Juan Sarmiento Menendez, for such were the full names and titles of our late caller.
He was apparently the last representative of a once great Spanish family, established for many generations in Cuba. His wealth was incalculable, although the value of his numerous estates had depreciated in recent years. His family had produced many men of subtle intellect and powerful administrative qualities; but allied to this they had all possessed traits of cruelty and debauchery which at one time had made the name of Menendez a by-word in the West Indies. That there were many people in that part of the world who would gladly have assassinated the Colonel, Paul Harley’s informant did not deny. But although this information somewhat enlarged our knowledge of my friend’s newest client, it threw no fresh light upon that side of his story which related to Voodoo and the extraordinary bat wing episodes.
“Of course,” said Harley, after a long silence, “there is one possibility of which we must not lose sight.”
“What possibility is that?” I asked.
“That Menendez may be mad. Remorse for crimes of cruelty committed in his youth, and beyond doubt he has been guilty of many, may have led to a sort of obsession. I have known such cases.”
“That was my first impression,” I confessed, “but it faded somewhat as the Colonel’s story proceeded. I don’t think any such explanation would cover the facts.”
“Neither do I,” agreed my friend; “but it is distinctly possible that such an obsession exists, and that someone is deliberately playing upon it for his own ends.”
“You mean that someone who knows of these episodes in the earlier life of Menendez is employing them now for a secret purpose of his own?”
“Exactly.”
“It renders the case none the less interesting.”
“I quite agree, Knox. With you, I believe, that even if the Colonel is not quite sane, at the same time his fears are by no means imaginary.”
He gingerly took up the bat wing from the arm of his chair where he had placed it after a detailed examination.
“It seems to be pretty certain,” he said, “that this thing is the wing of a Desmodus or Vampire Bat. Now, according to our authority”— he touched a work which lay open on the other arm of his chair— “these are natives of tropical America, therefore the presence of a living vampire bat in Surrey is not to be anticipated. I am personally satisfied, however, that this unpleasant fragment has been preserved in some way.”